A Time for Freedom
by Ethos
Summary: Discontinued! A little Harad child is rescued from corrupt warriors by a mysterious Northerner. Events ensue that could either bring freedom or death to all involved.


Author's Note: None really...I've got a few chapters written after this...so I should be able to update regularly despite that evil thing we call school. I don't have a beta yet (I'm trying to find one), so if you notice some errors, let me know and I'll fix them ASAP.

Second Author's Note: I have at long last found a Beta! This chapter will be cleaned up fairly quickly now, I think :D .

Thrid Author's Note: Well...regular updates are actually about as non-existant in my world as Unicorns and Mary Poppins, but I've finally got the fully Betad version of this chapter up, thanks to the wonderful aid of Calenlass Greenleaf.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own Aragorn, The Lord of the Rings, or anything else. Darn it.

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"Bury the land and burn the sun, force the wind…hurry up now…to where it's from. Drink the sky and breath the…get on… sea, and I'll be at peace with me. Would you please stop eating that? Come on, the water is just a little further and daddy expects us to be home soon, so please move a little bit faster," she sang as she walked, waving a stick at the goat rumps in front of her. A fat grey goat eyed her warily, clamping its teeth onto a stalk of grass. As she drew nearer, however, its gaze fell and it relinquished its grip and moved ahead. "Thank you," the little girl replied as put on the expression she defined as Mother's aren't-you-glad-you-didn't-push-me-one-step-further look.

The goats plodded along, stirring up a faint cloud of dust as she prodded them forward. It was a long and thankless task, and with the sun reaching its zenith, it was about the last thing she wanted to do at this moment. Even through the calluses, the sand was burning her feet, and the sun was reflecting off the ground so harshly that it was difficult to see. Her tongue seemed to grow within her mouth as she became more parched. Well, at least she was nearly there now.

As she rounded the bend, an exasperated sigh escaped her lips. For a moment she hung back, wondering if she should go home. Mommy and Daddy wouldn't be happy with her, but surely the goats could go one day without water and she really didn't think it safe to continue, but then she saw a husky brown goat charge off to stand, bleating, at the well's edge. With a deep breath, she gathered her courage and stepped into the open. There was no use hiding when they already knew someone was here.

The three Harad warriors leaned against the well, spooning mouthfuls of the water between their lips and laughing and talking as they allowed the rest to spill upon the ground. She walked up almost silently, not daring to attract too much attention to herself. Finally, there was no help for it. She approached one of them and, standing on her tip toes so as to see them more easily, cleared her throat. "Uh, Sir, would you mind letting me draw some water for my goats?" she asked, sending her most innocent and adorable expression their way.

"Yes, I would," one of them replied. He had a gaunt face and a light build, but looked rather daunting nonetheless. His eyes sparkled, however, as they moved over her small herd. "However, I may be persuaded otherwise. I haven't eaten anything but soup and stale bread these past few days. Some goat would do nicely on the board. I'm sure you wouldn't mind sparing a few of them, especially if it means you can water the rest."

"You can't have any of them," she declared, crossing her arms and tapping her toes. "And it's not nice to keep all the water to yourself."

"Oh, but I can, little miss. I can have every single goat, if I so desire. I'm not asking for much, though. Just give me five or so, and keep the rest. Then you can have all the water you want."

"I said you can't have any of them."

"I don't recall asking," the man hissed, stepping forward and backhanding the girl. She yelped and fell to the ground, much to the delight of the warriors. The spokesman turned to join in his companions' laughter before deciding to continue his game and approach the girl once again. Seeing his looming shape draw near, she trembled and backed away to curl up against the well. "That's more like it. All your filthy lot needs a little humility when dealing with respectable folk. Next time, perhaps you'll be smart and not argue with us. After all, we're only taking what we deserve for keeping you miserable wretches from harm. Now, what do you say, little girl?"

Big tears were rolling down her cheeks and she whispered, "Thank you." But her eyes held a seething hate and lack of gratitude.

"That's better." Turning back to the other warriors, he popped his neck absently, and then he paused for a time, regarding the small herd. "Come, lads, we'd best teach these peasants a lesson. Perhaps they'll sooner relinquish what we ask for if we give them a little incentive. Take all of them."

The men spread out and began slowly guiding the goats away. Horrified, the little girl sprang to her feet and chased after the leader. "No!" she cried as she rushed forward. Grabbing hold of his elbow and digging her heels into the ground, she managed to spin him partially around.

"Waif!" the man snarled and took an iron grip on her shoulder, "I'll teach you a lesson yet!" His other arm flew back and coiled as he prepared to strike.

"Hold!" Came a sudden command. No one moved at first, but at last the leader of the warriors glanced to the side and the girl's eyes followed.

A tall man stood not twenty feet away. She could not take her eyes from him. At first she thought it was some strange magic that held her, but then she realized that it was something else. Though he appeared both lean and weary, there was an air of danger about him as well as something she could not name. His boots were dull, having been scuffed by the sand, his raiment was dark and threadbare, and his cloak was stained with things better left unknown. His hair was long and lank, dark and tangled and a sure sign that he was in need of a bath. She noted as well that, though sunburned, the man's face was oddly pale. Most importantly, to both her and the warriors about her, he carried a bright sword on his hip.

The lead warrior went pale, but quickly recovered and sized up the stranger. "What right have you to issue such an order?" he growled. The hand that he'd been about to strike her with slipped down to the hilt of his sword.

"What right have you to harm this girl and steal what is hers?" the newcomer replied in an even tone.

"There are no laws in this land against such action."

"But there are laws of the conscience and of the heart, and these will not suffer me to stand by while you do this."

"Meddle in my business if you like, but it would be wise if you were swifter with your sword than your tongue, you arrogant fool!" With that, the Harad warrior freed his sword from its sheath and, dropping the child, rushed toward the stranger, aiming a wicked slash at his neck.

In a movement that was impossible for the eye to follow, the pale man drew his sword and blocked the blow. With that first resounding clash, the other two warriors unsheathed their swords and raced into the fight. Slashes and thrusts seemed to come at him from every angle, and it took a great deal of effort to keep them at bay. One such came too near its mark and the stranger was forced to leap aside. At the same moment that he landed, a sword slithered out from the side to strike at him. He deflected it with his own sword before stepping within the man's reach and planting a left hook on his jaw. Perhaps he could have finished that one off then, but another weapon was thrust at him and he was forced to turn his attention to it.

They had succeeded in surrounding the man. He was bitterly pressed from all sides, but it seemed to bother him little. There was a righteous fury in every blow he dealt, but he kept it carefully in check. In fact, few were the men who could fight more economically. It was no dancer of death, but a carefully checked whirlwind that the Harad warriors faced. There was little grace in his movements, quick and hard as they were, interspersed with feral punches and kicks. Rather, they were calculated in such a way as to do the maximum amount of damage without causing him to tire too greatly.

At last the stranger's sword whipped out and struck off the leader's head. The gory mass rolled some distance away from its fallen master, giving everyone a good view. The girl gaped at it, then felt her stomach become restless and turned away. Apparently one of the two remaining men felt similarly, for he suddenly ceased to fight and, turning on his heel, sped off down the path.

The stranger spun away from the remaining fighter to give chase to the coward, but just as he did so, the Harad behind him took the opportunity to rip a long slash down his back. Crying out and arching his back away from the pain, the stranger turned back to the fight. His wrath was terrible. Though the Harad warrior had already brought his sword back around and managed to draw its tip lightly across his chest, he paid it no heed. Rather he reached out with his left hand, catching the warrior's sword hand and, stepping forward, thrust his sword clear through the man. Without a single cry, the warrior fell to the ground. Finally, the stranger turned to where the third had fled with a silent grimace, but all that could be seen by now was the man's dust rising in the distance.

With a sigh, the man turned back around. He glanced quickly through the hole that had been made in his tunic, but found that the thin red line was already beginning to scab over. Then he reached behind him and brought his hand back in front of his face, it was smeared with blood. Reaching for his back again, he probed and flinched before giving a resigned sigh and walking over. When he reached her, he slowly sat back on his heels. "Are you well, little one?" he asked in a warm and soothing voice. He waited for a moment, but no response was forthcoming. At last he noticed her eyes and followed her gaze to his blood on his hand and wiped it off on the leg of his pants with a frown. Then he reached forward with his other hand and gently took hold of her shoulder and leaned down until he was at eye level. "Are you well?" he reiterated. The Haradrim had their own language, so maybe you could add that somewhere in the story that Habra usually spoke in her own tongue. But most of the Haradrim knew Common, for sure.

"Y-yes, Sir," she stuttered, her bottom lip quivering as she sought to quell her tears.

"It's a shame there are people such as those," the man sighed wearily. He stood up then and offered a gloved hand. The girl made no move at first, but, deciding that there was nothing to fear, she took it and rose to her feet. He turned and drew more water from the well, and after taking a long draw from it, turned back to face the child. "I take it you wanted to give your beasts some of this," he assumed as he poured the rest of the bucket's contents in a shallow trough. All at once, the goats surged toward it and began to dip their muzzles into the cool liquid.

"You're hurt," she accused quietly, looking him up and down.

"Not badly."

"But you are! You're so pale!"

His brow furrowed, as he considered his wounds and whatever could have brought the child to that conclusion. At last his expression softened and a broad smile lit up his face. "You would think that wouldn't you?" he laughed. She tilted her head at the strange comment before folding her arms rather defensively. "Have you ever seen a man of the North before?" he asked when he recognized the confusion written across her copper skinned and dark featured face.

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Because the vast majority of them are pale skinned, even as I am."

"That's strange."

"Yes, I suppose that is."

"So you mean you're not blind then, either?"

"Blind? Where would you get an idea like that?"

"Well, I've only ever seen one person with eyes as light as yours, is the old widow by the cliffs. She can't see the nose on her face."

"I was able to fight those men, you know."

"And she can weave."

"I guess you have me beaten then, but I dare say I am not blind."

"Good, I didn't want you to be. My name's Habra, what's yours?"

"My name…"

"Have you forgotten it?"

"Sometimes I think I have. Call me Mahtiraq."

"That's a funny name. Was your mother…you know…touched?"

"Don't make me laugh," he begged, bent in half and holding the wound on his back while trying to recover from a burst of laughter. "It hurts. No, my mother was a very intelligent lady, but mothers are not the only ones who name people."

"Oh. You North people are definitely strange."

"Perhaps. Well, I'd best be off. It was nice meeting you, Habra."

She stared in shocked silence as the man cleaned his sword and sheathed it before beginning to walk away. "No, you can't go!" she called and raced after him. Frowning, Mahtiraq turned and waited for an explanation. The little girl swallowed deeply, feeling her cheeks color. How she hated being little and afraid! "What if they come back?"

He turned to face the south and stood unmoving for a time, but at last he turned back. "I suppose I can walk you home. How far is it?"

"Really?! It's only two miles or so, not far at all. Come on. Come on!" she said. Quick as a swooping falcon, she locked her iron grip about his hand and took hold of her stick before trotting after the goats. Mahtiraq was forced to follow along at a swift walk to keep from being dragged.

As they made their way, Habra described her home in excruciating detail and recited the names and habits of each of her hoofed companions. Mahtiraq allowed her voice to become a simple droning in the back of his mind as they walked, listening only enough to humor her with a nod of his head or a murmured word of agreement. "…because my daddy can't move his legs, so Momma takes care of him all the time. Ajro is pretty much the one you have to answer to at home, he's the oldest. Don't tell him I said this, but sometimes I think that he forgets that he's not one of my parents. He's way too bossy. Relik is my cousin, but he lives with us anyway. He's really grumpy and you don't want to bother him early in the morning."

"What happened to your father?" Mahtiraq asked, startled from his mindless daze by her strange announcement.

"I don't really know. He never talks about it, but he was a Harad warrior once too. He went away for a long time, once, when he came back he couldn't walk any more. I think his horse fell on him."

The Northerner nodded but said nothing, seeming lost in his thoughts.

"There it is, Mahtiraq! Come on, hurry up!" she called to him having caught sight of the mean mud building. She dropped his hand and raced forward, leaving her goats to scatter in her wake. "I'm home! I'm home! Come and see who I brought with me!"

"There's no need to yell, Habra. We don't want to interfere with whatever they're doing."

"Nonsense! They'll all want to meet you," the little girl argued as she took hold of him once again and dragged him into the building.

"Habra! Quiet down. Your father is sleeping," came the exasperated sigh from within.

It took several seconds for Mahtiraq's eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness within the building. When at last they did, he noted the bare floors and rickety wooden chairs. There were two doors in the back wall, but both were securely closed and so did not reveal their purpose. While no bedridden father was in sight, there was a middle aged woman sitting in a rocking chair in the corner stirring a pot.

"Momma!" Habra whined. "Momma, look!"

"Oh my, Habra." her mother said, finally looking up at the rugged northerner. She stood up nervously and faced the man. "Ajro! Habra, come here." She took hold of her daughter and dragged the girl behind her. She backed up slowly and regarded him with obvious suspicion.

Just then a young, dark man walked through the front door behind Mahtiraq. "Who are you?" he demanded after taking the situation in. "Get out! Your kind isn't welcome here."

Mahtiraq stood up taller and cast a dark look at the lad. "And what kind would that be?" he challenged.

"Lawless exiles from the North, if my eyes tell me true," the boy replied and reached back outside the door to grab the hoe he'd been using.

The stranger stood in the middle of the room. Stern and terrible he seemed, but then his shoulders bent and bowed his head briefly and turned to leave.

"Mother! Ajro!" the girl pleaded looking from one to the other. "Mahtiraq, don't go! Please Momma; he's not a bad person. Some warriors wanted to steal the herd. When I told them they couldn't they hit me. Then Mahtiraq came up and told them to leave me alone. They didn't and he killed two of them, the other one got away, but he saved me and I think he's hurt."

"Is this true?" the boy asked turning to Mahtiraq.

In return, the northerner simply nodded his head.

"You don't believe me, Ajro? Look at his back…he got a cut there," Habra pouted, pointing to Mahtiraq with one of her small fingers.

Ajro turned to face the matron of the house, and some understanding passed between them before the youth stepped forward. "Do you mind…Mahtiraq?" he asked, his tone making it clear that refusal was grounds for immediate removal from the house. The stranger gave a sigh, but turned around and stood still, his hands in the air a good distance from his weapons. Hesitantly, the boy approached. It took a moment with the black cloak and dark clothes for him to find any sign of a wound, but at last he noticed the line of shining fabric. He touched it gingerly and felt that the cloth there was hot and sticky. Considering it for a moment, the boy then reached forward and pulled the fabric aside to reveal the torn skin and muscle. Gently, he probed the wound and heard the man gasp as his fingers reached the deepest part, toward the bottom of the diagonal line. The boy peered closer to investigate and discovered that the man's bottom rib was peeking through the parted flesh and that the cut deepened just beneath it. At last he stepped back and rubbed the blood off his hands. "You're going to need to have that taken care of, Mahtiraq," he said at last, as if making a pronouncement.

"Told you so!" chirped Habra as she grinned from ear to ear.

Mahtiraq turned around slowly, a grimace still on his face and looking somewhat paler than he had a moment ago. "It'll be fine. It didn't hit anything important and it's not exactly going to bleed me out," he replied.

"Bleeding isn't what I'm worried about. You're cut to the bone, infection is going to set in soon if you don't do anything about it," the boy countered.

"I have some skill in healing. I'll tend to it."

"What? You mean to say that you can reach behind you and sew that up?"

"Both of you!" the woman called out in warning, immediately silencing their squabbling. "Mahtiraq, I will not have someone who rescued my daughter suffer the effects of infection. Come here."

The man looked around, seeming rather unsure of what he should do, but in the end, Habra's mother left little room for argument and he stepped forward.

"Turn around now, and hold still. I'll need to get my things," she said, standing up and disappearing behind one of the doors before she returned with a small basket in hand. "Habra, see to it that the goats aren't wandering off. No doubt you forgot to close the gate."

The girl's ebony eyes widened and a sheepish grin came over her face, then, quite suddenly, she was gone, racing off to do as she was told.

"Now that she's out of my way I can get to work," the mother muttered. "Take your cloak and tunic off."

After a cautious glance over his shoulder, Mahtiraq complied. Perhaps he had decided that the middle aged woman would not seek to spit him with the sewing needle she waved about to punctuate her words. At first he felt nothing but pain as she applied some stinging paste to the wound. Involuntarily, he jerked away from it, but quickly regained his self-control and allowed her to finish. Then she settled into the monotonous, albeit uncomfortable, motion of sewing the cut closed.

While his mother was working diligently on the stranger, the young man pulled up a chair and perched upon it like a hawk. "Forgive our assumptions, Mahtiraq," the young man said. "These are trying times and one would not look for such kindness from a Northman. They are said to be thieves and murderers."

"Who says this?" Mahtiraq demanded, the lines of his face straining with anger.

"Everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Our neighbors, our relatives, the warriors, and Sauron the Great most of all," the lad replied with a shrug.

"Sauron the…?" A bitter laugh escaped the stranger's mouth as he shook his head in disbelief. "Do not believe all that you hear. These sources of yours are greatly mistaken, or else are liars. While some of my kindred occupy themselves with such unsavory lives, most are valiant and true. You would be hard pressed to find one man in twenty that would not have rushed to your sister's aid."

"Do not speak ill of Sauron. You have our thanks for what you've done, but Northmen, as a rule, are not welcome in these lands. You press your luck by insulting our master."

"Master. So then you are his slaves."

"His people."

"How often do you have problems with the warriors who come through your lands?" Mahtiraq asked. The boy was silent for a long moment, and then looked downward. Taking that as reply enough, the Northman continued. "Then either Sauron cannot control his men or he allows them to mistreat you so."

"Silence! Mother, stop! We must send this man from our lands now! We show him kindness and he repays us with speaking treason in our home."

"What? Are his spies sitting with their ears to the windows and doors, waiting for one incriminating word so that they can drag you from your homes in the middle of the night, never to be seen or heard from again?"

"I warned you, stranger!"

"Peace! I am finished."

A long, uncomfortable silence stretched out then and all was still save for the mother's hand and the needle she held in it. At last, the mother's voice pierced the silence. "My daughter said that you killed two of them and that the third escaped," she stated.

"Yes. I would not have slain the two, save they left me with no choice."

"You mistake me, Mahtiraq. It would have been better had you killed all three. Now the one will spread word of your deed and more warriors will come to try to deal out your punishment."

"And so I have drawn their attention to you? I am sorry for that, then."

"You can't stay here."

"I know that well enough. I meant to have already left these parts."

"Where will you go? Back to the North?"

"No. I came here to learn of your people, and I still mean to."

"I would counsel you to return to your homeland nonetheless. The penalty for assaulting warriors is severe."

"I will not."

"Then we will help you as we may, but you must be gone before nightfall."


End file.
